Lessons in Humanity
by SinSlash
Summary: Voldemort has been vanquished and the Wizarding World is on its way to recovery. However, for Harry Potter, the adventure is never over, and he is drawn to a place called Sunnydale where something waits which he has always wanted: a real family. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or Buffy the Vampire Slayer. They are the property of J. K. Rowling and Joss Whedon respectively. _

**WARNING: In case you somehow missed it, this story is rated 'M' and will contain both slash AND violence. If this is not okay with you, I recommend you turn back now! **_  
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**A/N: **Hello all! Me again with yet _another _Harry Potter crossover, this time with Buffy the Vampire Slayer!

I just recently got into Buffy, but so far, it is amazing! I don't know how I managed to go this long without seeing it! Of course, like with all things I watch, it spawned a crossover idea, which is how this story came to be.

Anyway, this story will have a very odd pairing (from what I've seen of other crossovers on this site), but I hope all those who read it decide to give it a fair chance regardless.

* * *

**Chapter 1:**

Names have power. That was something that Harry Potter knew quite well and was something which had been demonstrated to him during his life time and time again.

At first glance, a name was simply something with which you were addressed by. Yet, there was something deeper about them. Something able to make one feel as if they were soaring through the clouds or drowning in a sea of despair, able to send chills down the spine of some and cause other's hearts to sing in hope. Something able to shape the very fabric of a reality, and something able to destroy it as well.

Growing up, Harry was called "freak" and "boy" by the Dursleys, and as such, he had come to accept that that was who he was—_what _he was. Until he was four years old, he hadn't even known that "Harry" was his real name.

In the Wizarding World, names were taken to similar extremes. There, he was the "Boy-Who-Lived", the "Child of Prophecy", and his favorite, the "Gryffindor Golden Boy." Like with the Dursleys, he was called these things so much that he _became _them.

However, as Harry had come to learn, names only had as much power as the one who heard it uttered allowed.

Voldemort, for example, would hiss and curse whenever referred to by his Muggle name, Tom Riddle. Although it was just a name, just a word, the simple utterance of it had power over him—all because he let it. Voldemort let ties develop between him and his former name, ties which were left to rot and fester, and when brought to the forefront of his mind, the power of it was revealed.

Harry had sworn to never let names have power over him—never again. He had been confined by them for too long. That was why he refused to let speaking the name of Voldemort frighten him, and why when he was taunted and shunned by both the impressionable students of both Hogwarts and the media as they were want to do, he did not so much as bat an eye. And slowly but surely, someone saying the common phrase "I'm serious" no longer drove the breath from his lungs.

This technique of disconnecting himself from names had been put to the test following the death of his two best friends, Ron and Hermione. While it still hurt to hear their name or be reminded of them in any way, he was trying his best to deal—removing the power they had over him, but still finding a way to treasure their memory.

It was hard, and Harry hadn't been sure he would make it through with no one to support him, but he had managed and grown stronger for it. He had been pushed to the edge and told to jump, but had managed to hang on by the skin of his teeth.

He would live, and he would deal. He would not let the power of their name crush him into nothingness.

It sounded heartless, but to Harry, it was the only way he couldsurvive.

Nonetheless, despite the delusions Harry had blanketed himself in, there still existed names which were able to rock him to his very core. To anyone else, they may draw only blank confusion, but to Harry—they mattered. To Harry, they had power. Power to control him. Power to make him _feel_. Power to lift him from the expanse of nothing he had crawled into and the same power to reduce him to a pitiful pile of nothing.

And he wasn't sure what to do about it. These simple names frightened him—frightened him in a way that the name "Voldemort" never came close.

"Mr. Potter?"

Harry felt as if he were moving through molasses as he lifted his gaze from the somehow majestic scroll he had been staring at.

Seated in front of him was a medium-sized goblin with pale green skin and a malevolent smile. Its teeth were crooked and its gaze was spiteful, none of the goblins of Gringotts having forgotten the stunt he and his friends had pulled to secure one of Voldemort's Horcruxes the year prior.

Goblins did not forgive, and they definitely did not _forget_, but if it was one thing they respected, it was wealth. And whether he wanted it or not, Harry had a vast fortune—a fortune which had been used to reconstruct the bank and finance a large portion of its renovation. It was a small gesture's on Harry's part, but it went a long way on getting him back into the goblin's good graces.

"Yes, I'm fine," Harry muttered, giving his head a slight shake. He drew in a deep breath and adjusted himself in his seat, still trying to regain his bearings.

"Have you come to a decision?" the goblin asked, staring at him with its beady eyes. Harry met the creature's eyes squarely, refusing to be cowed.

With Voldemort's return and searching for the Horcruxes, Harry had never found time to sort through the accounts which had been left to him by his parents. But now, three months after the Dark Lord's defeat and with reconstruction well on its way, Harry had felt it was time he did so.

His plan had been to give away most it—to friends, people whose livelihood had been destroyed by the war, and to various organizations in charge of providing relief to the Wizarding World.

However, the goblin in charge of his accounts, Morkawf, would not let Harry squander his money so needlessly. The goblin had offered a second suggestion—the option to leave a large percentage of his fortune to his family as a way of keeping the money in Gringotts.

Harry knew exactly what game the goblin was playing. They did not respect individuals nor a wizard's standing in society. The only thing they recognized was wealth and the contents of a wizard's vaults—not because they were good guardsmen, no, but because they were _greedy_. Any way to acquire more money and place it under their control they pounced upon like a lion devouring its prey.

And this was one such instance.

Sneering, Harry had informed the goblin that he did not plan on siring an heir and besides the Dursleys, who he refused to leave a single knut to, he had no other family to speak of.

Or so he thought.

The goblin, with an ugly expression of its own, had snapped its finger and upon the polished mahogany desk that separated them, a brilliant golden scroll appeared. Morkawf took the scroll in its nobly hands and spread it open lengthwise.

Harry, curious despite himself, leaned forward… but the scroll contained not a single word.

"What is this?" Harry muttered when the goblin just looked up at him with its usual smile.

Morkawf leaned back in his seat and folded his hands together, looking far too pleased for Harry's liking.

"This is the Scroll of Cruorem, one of only two in existence—and it is under goblin control."

Harry looked down at the scroll then back toward the smug goblin. He quirked a single eyebrow.

"So?"

The goblin's eye twitched, its pleased expression falling away. He looked as if he wanted to insult Harry's ignorance but restrained himself with great effort and drew in a small breath.

"The Scroll of Cruorem. It is a magical artifact created long ago that is able to create a map of a being's entire bloodline, all from only a single drop of the user's blood."

Although Harry showed no reaction on the outside, inside Harry's mind was racing. Such a thing existed? Something which would be able to tell him the name of every relative he ever had—all just with a drop of blood?

To be able to use such a thing… The goblin had him by the stones, and they both seemed to know it.

Harry leaned back in his seat, trying to look as aloof as the creature in front of him. "And how much will using this scroll of yours cost me?"

Morkawf tilted his head and hummed, dragging the moment on as long as possible. "Three-thousand Galleons."

"What?" Harry cried, leaping to his feet. His chair fell backwards with a crash but he paid it no mind, instead staring down at the calm goblin with a fire burning inside his chest. "Three-thousand Galleons? That's a rip off and we both know it!"

"Please sit down, Mr. Potter," Morkawf said, its condescending attitude disappearing like a wisp of smoke. In his place was a professional Gringott's employee capable of handling his job efficiently and competently, and although Harry didn't want to, he returned his chair to rights and plopped down into it, a glare still on his face.

Morkawf nodded, pleased and folded his arms under his chin. "While I know that Three-thousand Galleons may seem like a lot—"

"It bloody well is! That's at least a fifth of my vault!"

"—to be fair, it is quite a good deal for what I am proposing."

Harry gaped, unable to believe that the money-hungry little bugger was daring to speak to him as if he was being offered the discount of a lifetime. "A _good deal_? I'm sure there are plenty of spells out there that does exactly what you're offering, and I don't have to sell my bloody limbs to afford it!"

"While it's true that such spells do exist," the goblin allowed, "they are not nearly as extensive as what I offer. With a spell like you suggest, you would be lucky to discover the names of your grandparents and nothing further. But with the Scroll of Cruroem, you will be able to find the name of every being who shared even a _drop _of the same blood as you, dating as far back as the days of Merlin himself."

"…But still," Harry said, the winds having been knocked out of his sails by Morkawf's explanation. "Is knowing everyone in your family _really _worth so much?"

Morkawf gave Harry a look that clearly said, "You can't be that much of an idiot, can you?"

"Okay, yeah, I get that blood is important to Wizards," Harry conceded, "but I just can't—"

"Mr. Potter, what would you think if a man running for Minister of Magic claimed that he was a descendent of Godric Gryffindor himself?"

Harry snorted. "That's obvious. I would think he was lying to score himself more votes."

The goblin nodded. "But what if that same man had proof: a magical scroll that could not be tampered with or display false information that _confirmed _that Godric Gryffindor's blood ran through his veins?"

"…Then I guess I would have no choice but to believe him. And the entire Wizarding World would probably elect him and recognize him as an important person, just because he has Gryffindor's blood in his family."

"Precisely, and that is how blood and status works in the Wizarding World. With so much inbreeding and certain lines dying out, family tapestries have become so diluted that one does not know with _whom _they are truly related. But with the Scroll of Cruroem, such trivialities are done away with. Its contents cannot be faked and it only shows the truth. I would even be willing to swear a Blood Oath if you'd like?"

"N-No," Harry whispered, staring at the scroll as if he was seeing it for the first time. "That won't be necessary—I believe you."

"So what do you say?" the goblin asked, its voice low and coercing. "Do you wish to use the scroll?"

Harry's throat convulsed as that simple question weighed down on him. While cost was not really an issue, this scroll had the ability to open up a new world to him or show him a shocking truth that he did not want to accept.

Everyone always commented on how much he looked like his father or how he had inherited his mother's eyes and her fiery personality—but what if he hadn't? What if this scroll showed him the ugly reality that James and Lily Potter were not his parents, or that James was his father but his mother was some woman he had never heard of?

What would he do then?

But… there was also the chance that there were other relatives out there who no one knew about. People who were so unlike the Dursleys and would welcome him with open arms and allow him to have the family he had always dreamed about…

Both options squeezed his heart in a vice-like grip, but he had so much more to _gain _than he had to lose, but he didn't want to think about that.

Besides, he was a Gryffindor, warriors known for their bravery and charging in without thinking too much about the consequences.

So that was why he decided that…

"I'll do it."

"Excellent," the goblin said and clapped his hands together, a greedy gleam entering its eyes. "Now all you have to do is place a single drop of blood onto the surface of the scroll, and once that is done, everything will take care of itself."

Harry nodded, although the words did not register in his brain. The only thing he saw before him was the scroll. Various reasons why this was a bad idea flashed behind his eyes, but he pushed them away.

Now was not the time for thinking. Now was the time for action.

The dark-haired wizard lifted his index finger to his mouth and bit down—_hard. _The pain hardly even registered and a drop of blood quickly bloomed from the wound.

Harry placed his finger over the blank piece of parchment and watched as the blood rolled down, fell, and hit the piece of parchment with a silent splash. As soon as the blood touched down, there was a golden flash that filled the room, blinding him.

Once the glare had vanished, Harry blinked rapidly and stared down at the piece of parchment.

The blood was gone, and where it had once been was a single name: Harry Potter. He watched, and slowly, a line extended upward from his name and split out, where two more names appeared: James Potter and Lily Evans-Potter.

Harry released a great sigh of relief, safe in the knowledge that he really was his parent's child.

As he looked on, the lines continued to branch and draw their on paths, Lily connecting to her parents and sister, and James connecting with his parents.

And that was where things began to take a turn for the surprising.

Harry was breathless as he watched the lines move, showing him more and more of his family bloodline and the lives that had been spawned around it. So many people whom he had never met, people who he had never even _heard _of—but to him, their names meant something.

It meant that they were his _family_, and even the Dursleys, who he despised with all of his beings, would always be his family.

After what felt like hours, the lines finally stopped moving but Harry had yet to scour even a _tenth _of the massive amount of information. There were just so many names—Harry had never in his wildest _dreams _thought that he had so many relatives, dating back hundreds… even _thousands _of years into the past.

"This is brilliant," he whispered, not taking his eyes off the golden parchment. "I didn't think it would be this extensive… Bugger me! I'm distant relatives with Merwyn the Malicious! He created the jelly-legs jinx you know."

Morkawf chuckled at Harry's enthusiasm, a small curl to his lips. "Yes… what one finds in their family history is often quite fascinating." Then, without warning, the goblin leaned forward and rolled the scroll up so the names of his relatives were no longer visible.

Harry released a cry of shocked outrage and stared at the goblin. "Hey! I wasn't done with that!"

"By the rules of the Gringott's Handbook page four-thousand seventeen, paragraph twelve: 'A witch or wizard is only allowed thirty minutes with the Scroll of Cruroem before it is to be returned to its resting place for future use.'"

"…You can_not _be serious!" Harry thundered, once more leaping to his feet. His fingers itched to reach for his wand and just blast the stupid green beast to oblivion, but the risk of losing the scroll cooled his head. "I paid three-thousand Galleons just for a _sneak peak_? I knew this scroll business was a rip off and I swear—"

"After purchasing the scroll, the buyer can purchase an infinite number of tamper-proof copies."

Harry narrowed his eyes and grit his teeth. "…And how much will _that _cost me?"

The goblin just grinned.

**o0o**

After paying for a magical copy of the Scroll of Cruroem, Harry had been giddy with excitement. With this scroll, one of the greatest questions he had while growing up would be answered: who was he?

Yes, his name was Harry Potter, but what were the details of his origin? Who was his family? What great deeds had they accomplished?

And now, he could finally _know_.

For an entire week, he disappeared off the face of the earth, instead choosing to hole up in the library of his small two bedroom home. It was one of the many abodes belonging to the Potter family which was nestled away on a small island off the coast of Britain—the perfect location for one who did not want to be disturbed.

The things Harry found out were in a word, fascinating. His great-great-grandfather had fought in one of the numerous Goblin Rebellions, and as it turns out, one of his great-great aunt's were responsible for suggesting the dung and puke flavored beans to the famous Bertie Bott. Why she would do this, he had no clue, but it was an interesting bit of trivia nonetheless.

And while Harry was thrilled that he could learn about his family, that had not been his main motivation for acquiring the scroll. In the library, there were many books that told the history of the Potter bloodline, but of course, it was skewed toward only the males and a good chunk of the books were spent spinning embellished yarns of epic battles and evils vanquished—things you would expect to find in a child's fairytale.

No, what Harry really wanted to know was if he had any _living _relatives, which was a lot harder to confirm using books. It would have been much easier if the scroll could somehow tell him if the person was living or dead, but it would perhaps be hard to acquire such information, even with magic.

What Harry needed was some way to find information on these people, such as when they were born, where they lived, and most importantly, if they were _still _living. Most books only wrote about a person's famous deed before moving on. Only in autobiographies were the details talked about, and one did not get an autobiography unless they were very important.

So when it came to Harry's _lesser _known side of the family, he was up a creek without a paddle.

If only Hermione were still alive…

Harry shook that longing off, refusing to sink into a hopeless despair. Instead of wishing things that could never be, he should try to find the solution on his own.

But how? If he were Hermione, what would he do?

He snorted. That answer was obvious: research. But once again, _how_? Books were of no use, so what else could he use?

Like a bolt of lightning, the answer hit him and Harry wanted to smack himself. Of course! He had been living in the Wizarding World so long he had almost forgotten about Muggle technology.

Although he hadn't much experience in it, Harry remembered Dudley crying to receive a computer, and then upon getting one, crying about not being able to use the internet. Harry had never used it personally, but he knew enough about it to know that it was the supposed "future" of the world.

If it was even a fraction of what it was hyped to be, then maybe…

Harry nodded, his next course of action set: find a Muggle computer. And there was one place he knew without a doubt that he could find one.

**o0o**

Lazy clouds flitted through the sky, blocking the early morning sun and casting a gloom on the streets below. Muggles dressed in both business and casual wear walked the streets, heading toward their daily jobs.

Brushing shoulders with the normal folk of the world was Harry Potter, dressed in baggy jeans and a t-shirt with a baseball cap over his hair to hide his infamous scar.

It felt _odd _to be once more among Muggles, having ignored them for the better part of a year, but Harry had walked the streets of London enough that he knew his way around—well, enough so that he wouldn't get hopelessly lost.

With a small nod in the right direction from a passing man, Harry found the library without incident. And it was _immense_. It was easily the size of a small school building, made up of dusty red bricks and with large windows which reflected what little light available.

It was an impressive sight, and the inside was just as grand. The roof seemed to stretch on forever, and the fine, handcrafted bookcases spaced throughout the building were stocked with literature of all kinds.

In the middle of the library was a long table, atop which sat many high-tech computers, turned on and ready for use.

Not many people were about, and Harry was thankful for that. Off to the side sitting behind a counter, the librarian was reading a trashy magazine of some sort, so Harry wasn't sure he would be able to receive help from her even if he asked.

Sighing, he walked over to the nearest computer and sat. On the screen was a beautiful picture of some river Harry had never heard of, and all along the left side were small icons.

"I can work a bloody computer," Harry whispered to himself, looking down at the keyboard and the unimposing appearing mouse. He took the device in his hand and wiggled it, smiling when the pointer on screen moved as well. "I was an ordinary Muggle once; I can figure this out…"

On the desktop, there was a convenient icon named 'Internet Explorer', and seeing as that was exactly what he wanted to do, Harry navigated his mouse over to it—which was much harder than it should have been—and managed to click it.

After several moments of waiting and weird mechanical sounds which had Harry looking around in confusion, a browser page opened up welcoming him.

He removed the shrunken copy of the scroll from his pocket and with a whispered spell, it returned to its full size. He laid it out along the area next to his computer, suppressing a groan when he thought of looking up _all _of these names.

There were at least one-hundred, _excluding _the ones whom he knew were too old to possibly still be alive.

Harry looked from the computer screen, down to the keyboard and once more back to the scroll.

He _really _wished he had taken Muggle Studies. Maybe then he would have learned _something _about how to use a computer.

Sighing, Harry cracked his neck. Well, there was no better time than the present, right?

With a long list of names and next to no skill with using a computer, Harry began the arduous task of trial and error.

**o0o**

It took several days—several long, hard, _painful _days—but Harry had, with minimal help from the unkind librarian who sneered when he asked for assistance, mastered the much feared computer and its World Wide Web enough to go through his family tree to determine who was still living and who was deceased.

Besides the Dursleys, he had no living relatives on his mother's side of the family, and the few names he had scraped together from his father's side were woefully small. Many of them had their blood so diluted by marrying outside the Potter family that Harry could barely even say they were related to him.

Harry knew it was selfish and unrealistic to want a _close _blood relative instead of some distant fifth-cousin, but he couldn't help it. He had never had a parent, and his aunt and uncle were horrid people; he just wanted _one _person with a blood relation, just _one_, to be there for him…

And despite the miniscule odds, there was still a chance.

Among the list he had pieced together was only _one _name that he put any real hope into. His great uncle, he had been pleasantly surprised to learn, was alive and well.

The internet was truly a wonderful tool, and with it, Harry was able to find the man's current location and even a few news articles about the wild escapades he had gotten into during his younger days.

Some of the things made even _Harry _lift a brow in surprise, and _he _had fought a troll during his first year of Hogwarts.

Now the question remained: what was he going to do?

He had set out on a quest to find any close relative that he could, and now here was one staring him in the face. In the end, Harry only had two options really: he could ignore it and just move on with his life, _or _he could try and track down his newly found great-uncle and hope the man wouldn't think him bonkers when he claimed they were related.

Curiously enough, he noted, his uncle did _not _have the last name of Potter, but he was without a doubt his grandfather's younger brother, which meant that they were born from either different mothers or different fathers.

Either way, there was no way Harry could determine if the man knew of the Wizarding World, and if it turned out that he was just an ordinary Muggle, ignorant of magic and the mysterious it contained, it might just be better for everyone if Harry were to leave them alone…

Harry sighed. He could speculate until the cows came home, but unless he _tried_, he would never know for sure…

His made up his mind. He knew what he was going to do.

**o0o**

"I'm leaving."

All noise in the Weasley dining room ceased after Harry made his announcement, but the black-haired teen continued on with his meal, seemingly oblivious to the scrutiny of seven pair of eyes on him. The food was tasteless in his mouth, and he washed it down with a sip from his goblet.

"Harry, dear, I—we must have heard wrong. What did you say?"

Harry sighed and sat down his fork. Slowly, he looked up to meet the eyes of the one who asked the question.

Molly Weasley's face was the slightest bit panicked and she gave him a strained smile. Harry tried to return it, but he didn't manage more than a grimace.

"I said… I'm leaving."

"Is it the food?" Molly asked, looking down at the various dishes spread out on the table in worry. "If you like, I could whip you up something that—"

"No," Harry said, giving a firm shake of his head. "It's not that; the food is delicious, _really_. What I meant was… I'm leaving… the country. And I'm not sure when I'll be back."

There was a clattering as the occupants of the table stared at him, the food on their plates forgotten.

"But 'Arry!" came the appalled voice of Fleur, Bill's wife. Bill placed a placating hand on her arm, but she paid him no mind as she continued, "Ze Wizarding World still needs you! Why would you leave?"

"That's right!" Molly shrilled, quick to jump onto the first argument she could to convince Harry to stay. After the death of her youngest son and the near-miss of Fred, she had become overprotective of her family—and she considered Harry to be one of her own.

Harry's smile was the slightest bit bitter as he thought this, as he still sought validation from someone with blood connected to his.

"The Wizarding World is still in chaos—they need a leader, Harry. _You're _that leader…"

Arthur, ever the voice of reason, jumped to Harry's defense. "Now, now dear, at least let Harry explain where he's going and why before we start trying to force him to stay."

Molly and Fleur were both chastised by Arthur's rebuking words and Harry flashed the man a small smile. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ginny swirling food around on her plate, and next to her, the Weasley twins were looking at him in curiosity.

Harry drew in a deep breath and sat up straight. "I want to go… to America." Molly released a startled gasp, but was cut off by her husband before she could respond.

"America!" Arthur enthused, perking up in interest. "I hear they have the best gizmos there, like a device which you plug into your TV that alters the perception of time!" Harry smiled, but he had no idea what the excitable man was talking about.

"America?" Molly cried, looking around the table for support. "Harry, what could you possibly hope to find _there_?"

"I think its right good that Harry wants to get out," George said, grinning. Fred nodded, an identical curl to his lips.

"Besides, wee little Harry needs a vacation after vanquishing the Dark Lord and what not."

"Also, I heard that the _women _there are—"

Molly glared.

"—dreadful, absolutely dreadful, right Fred?"

"Right you are dear brother o mine."

With each new word out of the twins' mouths, Ginny grew more and more sullen. Harry couldn't help but notice, and spoke up quickly to alleviate any misconceptions the twin's words may have sprouted.

"I'm not going for a vacation—I'm… I'm going to find someone."

Once more, silence descended over the table. Everyone exchanged glances, each trying to think of someone with whom Harry would meet in America.

They all drew blanks.

"My uncle," Harry clarified, watching the beginning of shock dawning on all of their faces. "I'm going to America to find my Uncle."

Ginny finally spoke, her eyes wide and confused as she stared at him. "Harry, I thought you hated them? They treated you so dreadfully!" Her sentiments seemed to be shared by everyone at the table, and Harry couldn't help but laugh.

"Merlin's beard, we've finally done it—"

"—we've broken Harry bloody Potter."

"Language, George," Molly snapped.

"I'm Fred, woman!"

"And Harry isn't _broken_," she continued, as Harry continued to chuckle. "He's just… tired from all the stress."

"I-I'm fine," Harry choked out, trying to calm himself. He wiped a stray tear from his eye and bestowed all of them with a bright grin. "No, not the flipping _Dursleys_—I have other family!"

Once more, there was a chorus of surprised gasps.

"'Arry! Zat… zat's great!"

"Yes, Harry that's…" Mrs. Weasley took in a deep breath, a watery smile on her face. "That's great."

"So you're going to America to find this uncle of yours?" Bill asked.

Harry smiled, relieved that his news had been accepted without explosive results. "Yes… At first I wasn't so sure, but I… I just… I don't know…"

"We understand Harry," Arthur said, nodding in understanding, "at a time as dark as this, you _need _family to depend on… so I can understand why you would want to find this man. But Harry, remember… whether he turns out to be what you expected him to be or not, we'll always be here for you."

"Mr. Weasley," Harry breathed, blinking back tears. "All of you… thank you." Harry looked around the table, taking in their warm smiles and silent encouragements—that is, until he turned to face Ginny.

Her head was lowered, her expression hidden behind a fiery curtain. Without a word she stood from her seat, her chair scraping noisily across the wood.

"I'm not hungry anymore," she muttered before turning and storming up the stairs.

Harry watched her go, a desire to rise to his feet and follow striking him, but he squashed it down. He and Ginny were over, and he would only be making it harder for them both if he tried to comfort her now… especially since he would be leaving soon.

"I wonder what crawled up her bum?" Fred snarked.

"I wish I knew dear brother o mine—maybe it's just that time of the month."

"Fred, honestly!"

"I'm George, woman!"

**o0o**

Rupert Giles sighed and removed his glasses to clean them with a handkerchief from his pockets. He had been trying to distract himself by reading up on some of the obscure demonology in his possession, but no matter what he did, his mind kept returning to Buffy and wondering what that bull-headed girl could _possibly _be up to.

He knew that he should be angry at her for abandoning them, and rightfully so, but no matter what he tried, his worry would win out over his indignation and he would be back to pacing and worry about her in less than an hour.

Despite his best efforts, Buffy had found a way past his defenses and shattered the Watcher-Slayer dynamic. Now they were, dare he say it, _friends_.

Giles closed the book in front of him with a dull bang and turned away from it. There was no way he could get _anything _productive done when he was so wound up.

If only she would call, write, or _something_, then maybe he would have enough peace of mind to at least—_Bang! _

The sound of the door slamming open interrupted Giles' inner ramblings and he turned to the door in a flash, hope rising in his chest.

"Buffy—"

Giles smile fell, his shoulders sagging. Instead of Buffy as he had naively hoped, there stood a black-haired boy wearing faded jeans and a t-shirt.

"Oh… a student," Giles said, turning away with a sigh. He really wasn't in the mood to deal with the pimpled masses of Sunnydale High, and he hoped the boy would be able to find whatever it was he was looking for with minimal assistance from Giles.

"Uh, excuse me," the boy began in a quiet voice. Even so, the British accent was heavy and Giles couldn't help but take notice. "I'm looking for someone."

Placing his glasses back on his face, Giles pointed over his shoulder. "The History section is right back there."

The boy didn't move. Giles wanted to walk away, but there was something in the boy's gaze which gave him pause—something nameless and intense. Even from a distance, Giles could see those brilliant green eyes burning into his own.

"I didn't mean a book… A person. I-I'm looking for a person."

Giles' curiosity had been piqued, but that didn't mean he was going to let down his guard. He had been living on the Hellmouth far too long to grow complacent, and there was something about the boy who stood before him now which fell outside the realm of 'normal.'

"And who might that be?"

The boy lowered his gaze, his voice nothing more than a whisper. "Rupert. Rupert Giles."

Giles felt something like electricity race down his spine, but he didn't yet know if this person was a friend… or a foe. He walked down the steps and pretended to organize papers on a table while he covertly took in the mysterious student who had appeared before him.

Although he dressed and looked like a normal student, he carried himself differently. There was a confidence there, hidden behind the almost relaxed manner he tucked his hands into his pockets. And his eyes—Giles couldn't repress a shiver.

No matter how hard one tried, they could not hide the truth in their eyes, and this boy… no, this _man_… his eyes were dark and haunted. He had lived through something. Something terrible.

It was the same look Giles saw reflected in his own eyes every morning.

"And what business exactly do you have with Rupert?" Giles asked, deciding to take the _safer _route of finding out what this man wanted before revealing himself. He had been knocked out and kidnapped one too many times for his liking, and he was beginning to grow suspicious of anyone who visited him.

A bad habit to have perhaps, but when living on the Hellmouth, it was better safe than sorry.

The man hesitated, his lower lip caught between his teeth. "I… I just need to talk to him. It's important."

Their voice was earnest, and in the too-big clothes they wore, Giles was able to sense an almost child-like innocence radiating from the man. It was strange, considering the darkness in his eyes, that one would also be able to exude light.

Not knowing if he would even live to regret it, Giles sighed and stood up straight. "I am he."

Like a switch had been flicked, the man's entire demeanor changed. The darkness receded into the shadows and the inner-child came out. The man's eyes grew wide and seemed to shine with unshed tears. His stance, which had at first been tensed and ready, relaxed and the dark-haired man looked as if he would collapse.

Concerned, Giles took a single step forward, a frown on his face. "Are you alright?"

They released a choked noise but nodded, their arms wrapped around themselves protectively. "I-I'm fine…"

The man's eyes seemed be taking him in, from his face, downward, and back up again. Giles just bore the inspection, a frown still on his face and a fleeting thought that maybe he should try to get this person some help.

"If you need to sit down," Giles began.

The mysterious man sniffed and wiped his eyes, a smile blooming on his face. "N-No… Really, I'm fine, it's just… Haha, wow, how pathetic I must look… bawling like this for no reason." He continued wiping his eyes, but the tears only seemed to flow faster.

Taking pity on him, Giles handed over his handkerchief. The boy took it with a quiet thanks and used it to try and stem the flow of his tears.

"I'm sorry," the man said after a few moments of sniffling. His eyes were a little red from crying, but his smile still shined with a happiness Giles didn't understand.

Giles inclined his head. "That's quite alright. But please, tell me: what are you doing here?"

Sighing, the boy's smile dimmed the slightest bit. "This isn't how I wanted our first meeting to go, but since things have already gone to hell I might as well just come out and say it." Their eyes met, the serious young man from before appearing in an instant. "This may be hard for you to believe but… my name is Harry Potter, and you, Rupert Giles, are my great uncle."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Hello again everybody~! Let me just say that, as always, I'm blown away by the response this story has received. Not to be picky or anything, but I feel like I'm a decade too late to be joining the Buffy/HP fandom, but... better late than never!

Anyway, let me say it up front: Yes, this story will indeed be a Oz/Harry story. I love me some Oz, so I wanted to write a story where he has a big part in it.

Uh, yeah. Not much else to say except read and review!

* * *

**Chapter 2:**

Giles' entire body stilled. Surely he must have heard wrong, yes? There was no way the young man standing before him had said what he _thought _had been said.

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" Giles asked, chuckling nervously when the man's—Harry he had introduced himself—serious demeanor didn't waver in the slightest. "For a moment there, it sounded as if you had said that—"

"You're my great uncle."

"Yes, that…" Giles felt his knees buckle and he immediately crumpled into the nearest chair, the man's assertion weighing down on him.

This Harry fellow was his… nephew? His _great _nephew?

Giles took a moment look at him, _really _look at him—his hair, his eyes, the shape of his face, the slop of his brow… While it was true that the boy did seem to share some similarities to not only Giles, but to his late mother, that in no way proved that they were related in the slightest. There were many people who looked alike yet bore no blood relations.

It was a common thing. In fact, the more Giles thought about it, the more ludicrous the idea seemed to become.

"That—that's impossible," Giles breathed, more to himself than to the silent man before him. "I have no brothers or sisters, so how…" Harry was still giving him that look—that look which said that he believed what he was speaking. Faced with such resolution, Giles could feel his incredulity at the situation fading the slightest bit, so he changed gears. "Do you have any proof?"

Instead of dancing around the issue and accusing the stranger of ridiculous allegations, Giles went straight for heart of the matter. So far, he had only Harry's word to go on, so no matter what the man said or what he requested, Giles had no obligation to listen _or _help until he could confirm that what Harry said was true. And for that, he would require proof.

The man named Harry dug around in his pocket before revealing a furled scroll of some sort. It had a rather elaborate design along the edges and seemed to shine in the dim lightning.

"It may not seem like much," Harry said, taking a step nearer to Giles and holding out the scroll, "but it was enough to convince me that you and I are blood relatives."

Giles hesitated, numerous thoughts of the horrid things that might happen once he touched that scroll flashing through his mind. But… the look in Harry's eyes, it was so _sincere_… With a small sigh, the librarian reached forward and clasped the scroll, his muscles tensing.

Nothing happened. After several silent moments where the two looked at each other over the scroll, Harry wearing a look that told of his bemusement and Giles with a sheepish tilt to his lips, the older man finally coughed and took the scroll.

It looked like an ordinary roll of parchment, unremarkable in the slightest except for the rollers which gleamed in the afternoon light. Giles placed the item onto the table and opened it, casting a glance at Harry before staring down at the so-called proof. Laid out before him… was a family tree.

Giles frowned. He could feel Harry's stare burning into the back of his neck, watching him—waiting. For what, Giles did not know, but he was sure that he would soon find out. He adjusted his glasses before peering down at the bottom of the scroll.

Located in the exact lower center was a single name: Harry Potter, the man who claimed to be his great nephew. Above it, a single line stretched up and split to name his parents: Lily Evens-Potter and James Potter. Stretching from the one known as Lily was a line that went off to the left and connected to someone named Petunia Evens-Dursley, Lily's sister. Petunia was married to a man named Vernon Dursley, and together they had a child named Dudley.

So far, Giles had yet to recognize any of these names, and he knew for a fact that there were no Potters _or _Evans in his blood, so he didn't see how this proved anything.

"Keep going," Harry muttered, as if he knew exactly what Giles was thinking. The librarian once more flashed him a look before doing as requested and returning his attention back down to the family tree.

Above Lily Potter were her parents, and _their _parents, and so on. The family tree was surprisingly elaborate and seemed to stretch on for generations. He tracked Lily Potter's side of the family until he knew it was impossible for her to have been related to him in any way. With a quiet sigh, he next turned to the one called James Potter.

Above James were his parents: Alan Potter and his wife, Vivian Vertis-Potter.

While the surname Vertis was also lost on Giles, it soon became apparent that he was not connected to them in any way either. That left only a relation to a Potter, and for that to happen, it would mean that one of them was his brother or sister, and as he a previously stated, he didn't _have _a single sibling.

If what Harry claimed was true, his brother would be Alan Potter. And the mother of Alan Potter was…

"I-Impossible," Giles breathed, unable to take his eyes away from that single name. Of course, he recognized it. How could he not?

Connected innocently to the name of Alan Potter and signifying them as their mother was Madeline Peverell-Giles.

"…Mother…"

But that… that was impossible! For such a thing to be, it would mean that his mother had had an affair while married to his father!

"She didn't cheat on your father," Harry reassured him, somehow correctly guessing exactly what he had been thinking.

Giles took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, the world seeming to spin for a moment as the very foundation of his world was rocked. "How can you know that?" he whispered bitterly, his heart clenching at the thought of a brother whom he had never known and who was birthed underneath both his and his father's nose.

Harry stretched out a hand—to do what, Giles didn't know—but he hesitated, his fingers trembling before his arm fell to rest by his side. "I _know _because I did a little research. I don't know the details, but my great-grandfather, um, the one who—"

"Impregnated my mother?" Giles spat angrily.

"Uh, yeah," Harry coughed, shuffling awkwardly. "This is gonna sound weird, but… you see, my great-grandfather, he… he died."

Giles placed his glasses back on his face and stood up. He began to pace the room, his entire body humming with sudden energy. What he _really _wanted to do was punch someone, that someone being Harry's wife-stealing great-grandfather, but since he was no longer even _alive_ to punch—the bloody coward—the next best target was Harry, and he was _not _about to take his ire out on an innocent.

Harry was only the messenger, after all.

"That saves me from having to murder him myself," Giles said conversationally, a twitch developing in his jaw. "But I see nothing weird about an old man dying from what I _pray _was a long and painful illness."

"Er… no?" Harry watched him as he paced, concern shining in his eyes but the fuming librarian paid him no mind. "I'm not sure _how _he died honestly, but I know it was shortly after Alan Potter's birth. In, uh… 1912?"

For a while, Giles continued his pacing, that number not meaning anything to him in the slightest. He waited for Harry to continue, to explain why things became 'weird', but with no information forthcoming, he stopped and turned toward the boy who appeared to be watching for his reaction.

"Is 1912 supposed to mean anything to me?" Giles asked, confused.

"That depends," Harry began, watching him closely. "What year was your father born?"

Giles frowned. "1920. Why?"

The dark-haired teenager just continued to stare. "Alan Potter was born in 1912. Your father was born in 1920."

The numbers clicked into place in Giles brain, but they left him with far more questions than answers. "W-What? But that's—"

"Impossible?" Harry shrugged, a bland smile on his face. "Trust me, when it comes to me, I've learnt that there's no such thing as impossible."

"N-No… this truly _is _impossible," Giles persisted, a frown on his face. "My mother… she-she was _much _younger than my father; there's… there's no conceivable way she could have sired a child before my father was even _born_."

There was a mysterious quality to Harry's gaze, as if he knew something but was not willing to share it. Giles narrowed his eyes at the teen, knowing there was a piece to this entire puzzle that he was missing and _hating _that he couldn't see the entire picture without it. He also knew that Harry had that piece—but for the moment, the man did not look keen on parting with it.

"When was your mother born, Giles?" Harry asked quietly.

"What? She was born in 19… 19…" The librarian trailed off, his hand poised under his chin in thought. "I—I honestly cannot seem to recall. I just… I never thought to ask."

"Is she still alive now?"

Giles frowned at the insistent questioning, not knowing what they had to do with anything. "I don't know… She… she left. When I was still just a boy."

A sudden light appeared in Harry's eyes, one that hadn't been there before, softening his countenance. "I'm sorry… I didn't know."

"It's quite alright," Giles reassured him was a faint smile, feeling worn out despite not having done more than pace a small path through the library.

His mind was still in disarray, and the more Harry spoke, the less sure of _anything _he was. So far, he was taking Harry's words at face value, but the man _did _seem to have genuine evidence that suggested that they were related.

But his _explanation _for it—it made no sense. If Harry had been trying to trick him into thinking they were related for some nefarious plot, why would he go through the trouble of making up such a convoluted back story? He would leave the details vague so that Giles wouldn't question the facts.

Instead, Harry had fed him this story… a story of how his mother had a child before his father was even _born_. It was preposterous! Yet… Giles could find no reason for why he would be told such an outrageous lie that no one would believe…

Unless it was the truth.

"I know exactly how you feel," Harry chuckled, a wan smile on his face. "I find out I have a family, but then I come across all of this confusing information." He shook his head, looking just as overwhelmed as Giles felt. "Honestly, I don't understand it anymore than you do."

Giles tried to return the smile, but it fell away and he once more slumped into a chair, all of his energy having been sapped away. His eyes landed on the accursed scroll which had thrown his life into disarray and finally registered Harry's words.

He turned toward the boy, a frown on his face. "Your family is…? All of them?"

Harry shrugged a single shoulder, his eyes taking on a far away quality. "No, my aunt is still alive and I lived with them after my parents died, but I consider her so far from family that she barely even counts…" He released a small sigh. "So, for the most part… I don't have a single living relative—that I like anyway."

"I see…"

The truth of the matter was, however, Giles didn't see at all. While he understood that Harry may not have a family to turn to, why had he suddenly decided to seek out Giles? What did he expect? Did this Harry fellow think that Giles would welcome him into his life with open arms and serve him tea and crumpets?

No matter Giles's personal feelings on the matter, forming such a connection couldn't be allowed. He had a sworn duty to protecting the Slayer, and while he had yet to find a reason to dislike his newfound nephew, he just wouldn't be able to get any work done if Harry followed him around like a needy puppy twenty-four seven.

It would be better for everyone if Harry just left—and _soon_. Sunnydale was on top of a Hellmouth after all, and even if Harry were to stay, it would be far too dangerous for him.

"You don't believe me, do you?" Harry asked, his voice nothing more than a whisper. Still, it was enough to knock Giles from his thoughts.

He looked at the dark-haired man, saw the fear of rejection lurking in his eyes and he also saw the crippling _need_. It was a heartrending sight, and Giles just _knew _that a misstep here might possibly end u damaging Harry more than he wished to.

"I… believe you," Giles said at length, keeping his gaze stern lest Harry get the wrong idea. "_However_, I will need to… verify this information before I am one-hundred percent sure. In the meantime, I think it would be best if you perhaps left town for a while."

Harry's stance changed, becoming more defensive. Giles knew that he was most likely jumping to the wrong conclusions, but there wasn't much he could do about that.

"I can help you look. I… I want to know too. I want to know about my family's past…" Harry bit his lip after he finished speaking, a fire burning behind his eyes.

Already Giles felt his resolve crumbling under the force of that stare, and he knew without a doubt that if they were to become close, Harry would have him underneath his thumb.

Giles sighed, both annoyed and endeared at the boy's conviction. In a way, it reminded him of Buffy…

"Listen… Harry… Sunnydale is not a safe place. I would feel much better if—"

Harry snorted. Giles raised an eyebrow and Harry quickly straightened.

"Sorry," he apologized sheepishly. "Not that I'm not happy that you don't want me getting hurt, but… I think I can handle myself."

Despite himself, Giles felt Harry's claim to be true. He just… _held _himself as a warrior would, and though Giles didn't know his past, he knew the man was a fighter capable of protecting himself. Besides, Harry was a man—even if he had yet to turn eighteen, Giles could see it in his eyes.

This was an adult.

"Fine then," Giles said with obvious reluctance. "You can help—but only because it will be faster this way. If it turns out that what you said is false—"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll have to leave immediately." A brilliant smile lit up Harry's face, transforming it from the haggard young man to that of a bright teenager. Giles tried to fight it, but he felt a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips as well. "But something tells me that won't be the case. Just a feeling in my gut."

Giles inclined his head and hummed, a similar feeling in the pit of his stomach as well. As much as he tried to ignore and doubt, a small part of him _had _accepted what Harry had said as truth and recognized him as family.

Though neither of them realized it, a bond between them quietly began to form.

"So!" Harry said, breaking the peaceful quiet that had fallen over them. "What's our first order of business?"

Giles frowned. While he appreciated enthusiasm and a healthy work ethic, he couldn't help but feel that Harry was just rushing into this blindly. It was almost as if he was just reacting as he went instead of planning ahead and thinking things through.

"I forgot to ask, but how did you come across this information?"

Something in Harry's eyes flashed but it disappeared in an instant. It had been so sudden that Giles wasn't sure if he had imaged it or not.

"When my parents died… they left me a will that I was supposed to look through on my seventeenth birthday. But, because of certain… circumstances, I couldn't check it out until a year later, a month after I turned eighteen.

"Anyway, my parents were very well off, and they left me a hefty sum in their inheritance. However, I wanted to give it away, but the bank workers—the greedy little buggers they are—wanted me to keep it in the family so they could stay in charge of it.

"I told them I didn't want to leave my aunt and her whale of a husband a single pound, and he informed me that the Dursleys—that's my aunt's family by the way—weren't my only relatives…"

Giles had remained quiet during Harry's story, but his brows were furrowed as he thought. While he was sure there were things Harry was keeping from him, the same could be said of himself, so he was willing to let it slide. But still, why would a _bank _of all places have a record of a person's living residents?

"How did the bank know? About me I mean?" Giles asked, staring at Harry closely.

Harry bounced on his feet and tilted his head toward the ceiling, his face pensive. "Well, they're a pretty special bank, so they do things a lot differently than most people would be used to. To put it simply, they keep a record of everyone's blood, so with a little DNA testing…"

Giles gaped. "Is that even legal?"

"Yes?" Harry said, more asking than stating.

"But why do they keep a record of everyone's blood? For that matter, why did they even _have _blood samples dating so far back? DNA testing had not yet reached the level to verify such information until—"

"Look, I don't know, okay?" Harry sighed, rubbing his forehead. "All this science talk is giving me a headache. Let's just say they used magic and be done with it."

"Right," Giles said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "So this bank used _magic _to find out that I was among your relatives even though anyone who was alive at the time is now gone."

Harry's eyes intensified, stopping Giles in his tracks. "Your family is dead too?"

The sudden question threw Giles for a loop. He stared at Harry and saw the empathy shining in those emerald eyes.

"I—yes. My father is dead, but as for my mother… Wait, that's not the point!" Giles stood to his feet and once more began to pace, a single hand pressed against his brow as he tried to think.

"So what is the point?" Harry asked, watching him.

Giles stopped and spun on his heels. "The _point _is that—well, I'm not quite sure what the point was exactly, but I'm sure that it was important…"

Harry snorted. "Believe me, I know how crazy this may all seem, but… there's the evidence right there in front of you; whether you choose to believe it or not is up to you."

Before Giles could respond, the door to the library flew open and a red-haired teenager walked in. Giles spared Oz only a passing glance but Harry's entire body stilled as soon as he saw the male. Oz returned Harry's stare in his usual unconcerned manner, a blinking contest of sorts ensuing.

Giles coughed, breaking Harry from whatever stupor he had fallen into. The emerald-eyed teen looked at him blankly for a moment before he shook his head, coming back to himself.

"Are you alright?" the librarian asked in concern.

After a few beats of silence, Harry nodded his head once and drew in a deep gulp of air. "L-Listen, I'm staying at a hotel in town, so I need to be heading back before it gets dark. Um… you can keep the scroll to look through, and tomorrow we can go over it together?"

Giles nodded, his gaze distant as he stared at where the scroll still lay out on the table. "Alright."

Harry gave him a small smile and turned to leave before pausing and spinning back around. "Oh, where did you want to meet up? And what time?"

"Here. I'm free anytime during school hours."

With a short laugh Harry said, "Right, it's not like you have a job to do or anything. Okay. Tomorrow then."

"Tomorrow," Giles agreed, nodding.

Their plans set, he watched as Harry turned and headed toward the door. Oz still stood near the entrance, and the two exchanged silent nods before Harry pushed through the double doors and disappeared into the hallways beyond.

Oz looked over his shoulder, as if he could still see the dark-haired stranger through the wood of the door.

After several long moments, Oz faced forward, his face pensive. "Who was that?"

Giles coughed, feeling as if he had been caught doing something he shouldn't. He hesitated, debating whether he should tell the truth or perhaps wait until he had more information. Sighing, he decided that it would probably come out eventually once Harry began frequenting the library and he met the rest of the group.

Besides, he couldn't think of a possible motive Harry could have other than the one he claimed, and until he was proven otherwise, Giles would give him at least that much trust.

"My nephew," Giles said, a hint of wonder entering his voice.

Oz shrugged. "I didn't know you had family."

Again, his attention was captured by the innocuous scroll on his desk and he walked nearer to it. "Neither did I."

"I used to think you were a robot," Oz informed him, his expression not changing in the slightest.

Straightening, Giles looked at the man in both annoyance and confusion. "What exactly are you doing here? Did you need something?"

Oz looked out the window where the sun was still shining brightly, but in only an hour would be disappearing into the horizon.

"Oh!" Giles cried, having forgotten with all of the recent excitement. "The full moon. Was that tonight?"

"Either that or I enjoy being locked up in a cage naked more than I let on."

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

"Right…" Giles said, just knowing it was better for everyone if he didn't question it.

**o0o**

"How is he?"

Giles looked up from the computer screen, his eyes strained from having been researching for the past few hours without rest. He was looking for any and all information he could on Harry Potter, and what he had found so far seemed to check out with what Harry told him—although there were curious inconsistencies in the man's life, particularly starting from when he was age eleven all the way to the present.

He hadn't been able to find out much about the Dursleys other than they were Harry's legal guardians and the man of the household, Vernon, worked in some company or other. He had also researched a little into Lily Potter, but James Potter had yet to turn up anything.

As soon as Harry had left, he had scoured his archives for anything he could find, however, it had all ground to a halt when he came upon a startling realization—he had no written records of his family history.

He had a few photos of his parents and some of their old things, but nothing that documented their life, and when he thought about it, he didn't know why he had thought he would. He came from a long line of Watchers, which meant that it was imperative that they not just leave their secrets around willy-nilly.

That sort of information was kept in the Watchers' Diaries, and since Giles was no longer a Watcher, he couldn't access that information. Most likely the diaries were locked away somewhere by the Watcher's Council in England, being preserved for future generations should they one day need them.

And Giles _surely _needed them, yet there was no way he could get them. The Council would no longer even give him the time of day.

Never in his life had he wished he had fought harder so that such items would fall into his possession, instead of being confiscated, but he had thought he would have no use for it…

"Giles?"

Broken from the stupor he had fallen into, Giles gave himself a small shake and focused on the person before him.

Willow Rosenberg was twisting her hands together, her eyes a little wide in concern. Tonight was the third and final night of the full moon cycle, and as always, Willow had appeared in the middle of the night to watch over her boyfriend in his transformed state.

Giles gave her a tired smile and turned to where Oz stood caged. The man—or rather, werewolf—was pressed against the bars of his temporary prison, his snout extended as far outward as the bars allowed where he proceeded to sniff the air without pause.

"He's acting weird," Willow sighed. "Well, you know—weirder than he usually does when he changes."

Giles took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, overcome by a sudden exhaustion. "I assure you Willow, Oz is quite alright."

The aspiring witch was less than reassured. She walked nearer to the transformed man, but he didn't even glance at her.

"Are you sure?" Willow asked, keeping a safe distance from the bars. "He usually growls and tries to kill me, but now… now he won't even _look _at me."

Giles paused. He was becoming well versed in understanding twisted female logic, so he knew that in Willow's brain, wolf-Oz's lack of interest in her was the same as human-Oz suddenly losing interest as well—even if it meant that having his interest could possibly get her killed.

And though he understood it, that didn't in any way mean he knew how to _deal _with it.

"Well," Giles began, searching for the right words, "I'm sure it's just a werewolf thing and has nothing to do with you. Once Oz returns to his old self, then—"

"You're right," Willow interrupted, a smile on her face. It was a good thing too, as Giles had no idea what he was going to say next. "When Oz wakes up and he's all naked, I'm gonna—" As if just remembering that Giles was still in the room, she jumped and quickly amended, "—I'm gonna… be a fine upstanding student who believes in sex only after marriage."

Giles, of course, was unconvinced.

"Right…" he said dryly. "Well then. It's quite late; I think I should be getting home."

Willow nodded and watched over her shoulder as the librarian gathered up his things and headed for the door.

"Bye Giles!"

Giles gave her a final smile before he disappeared, leaving her alone with the still sniffing werewolf.

Willow watched in silence as Oz continued to inhale. She even took a few experimental sniffs of herself to see if she offended, but there was nothing. The library smelled as it always had, but Oz was acting as if he had smelled the sweetest aroma, or in his wolf state, the freshest bloody slab of meat.

Whatever it was, it must have been powerful to bring about such a drastic change in the usually feral wolf.

Sighing, she walked over to their group's favorite table and sat down. Already her homework was finished for the next day, but she had gotten into the habit of doing a second copy of all her work—not because she was an overachiever, but for Buffy to look through when she returned. Which Willow _knew _she would.

As she worked, her concentration kept being broken by the insistent huffing noises Oz emitted. While his howls and growls had been annoying, she had become used to tuning them out, but this… not so much.

"What is it?" she asked him, even though she also knew he wouldn't understand. "Is Buffy trapped in a well?"

As expected, Oz didn't react except for releasing a small whine. It sounded fragile, _needy_, and Willow had _never _heard such a sound come from Oz, human or otherwise.

She stood to her feet and took slow steps toward him, waiting on him to look at her, to lash out or _something_. But he didn't, even when she was close enough where if he had wanted to, he could reach through the bars of his cage and touch her.

They were a mere inches apart now, barely an inch of metal standing in her way of certain death. Yet, Oz didn't seize the opportunity. He still continued on as if she wasn't even in the room.

"What are you smelling?" Willow whispered, not wanting to startle him. She ran her hands up along the bars, the metal cool underneath her fingertips. She trailed them higher and higher upward, until she could feel Oz's warm breath tickling her hand.

If she was bitten now, she knew without a doubt what she would become, and yet…

Slowly, she extended her hand forward… and placed her palm against the warm fur of his muzzle.

For a moment she smiled, thinking that she could get used to this semi-peaceful Oz. But then there was a fierce growl and a flash as he moved, and before Willow could even scream, she found herself laid out on the ground, her wounded arm clutched to her chest.

Oz was staring down at her from behind his bars, his teeth bared in a feral snarl. He was growling, his expression as close to hatred as his wolf form would allow. And even though Willow knew that that was no longer Oz, even though she understood it—it didn't stop the pain from blossoming in her heart.

Wincing, she managed to sit up and stared down at her arm. Bleeding profusely were cut marks that started above her wrist and continued upward to her elbow. They weren't deep, but they oozed blood and throbbed in time with her rapid heartbeats.

Breath was heaving from her lungs in short bursts and she knew she should get up and have her scratch tended to, but she just _couldn't move_.

After releasing a short huff of air, Oz once more pressed his face against the bars of his cage and began to sniff.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: ***falls asleep on keyboard*

...

*wakes up* Huh, what? Oh... Right. New chapter. Haha, man I'm freaking exhausted, so this probably won't be as... uh... something as it usually is.

But yay! We see more of the Scoobies this chapter, as well as a hinty-hinty of the plot. I don't want to kill the suspense, so I won't give anything away or set any expectations. So just read it, hopefully you'll enjoy it, and even more hopefully you'll hit that review button and tell me whatcha think, eh?

* * *

Willow Rosenberg was _not _having a good day.

Repeated occurrences of bad luck were not piling up against her, but it didn't take frequent disasters for one to be having a not-good day.

After her mini-meltdown in the library where she almost let herself bleed out, she had come back to her senses and made good use of the medical kit in Giles' office. Buffy received so many cuts and bruises while slaying that all the members of the Scooby Gang knew basic first aid, so she hadn't had much trouble in dressing her wound, even while woozy.

The _real _trouble had come when she had to clean up the blood from the floor. After getting the needed supplies from the janitor's closet, she had then proceeded in mopping up the blood she managed to trail everywhere. She didn't want Giles, or anyone else for that matter, coming in the next day and thinking that a murder had taken place.

By the time she had managed to dispose of the evidence of her getting injured, that had left her with only two hours to go home, clean up, take a quick nap and get back up for a not-so-bright day of school.

And to make matters worse, to cover up her bandages, she wore a pink wool sweater with long droopy sleeves. That, combined with a hot Californian summer day, did not a happy Willow make.

Thankfully, lunchtime was drawing near. She could probably sneak in a forty minute power nap before it was back to being a model student.

"Wow Will, you look like hell."

Xander, her friend since the playpen, matched her pace as they began their familiar trek to the library. She pouted, although it had intended to be more of a glare.

"Thanks, because that's what _every _girl wants to hear when she's having one of the worst days ever."

"Okay," Xander drawled, giving her a sideways glance, "based on the information I've gathered… I'm _guessing _you're in a bad mood."

Willow sighed and would have rolled her eyes if she weren't so exhausted. "Gee, I wonder what gave it away."

"Come on," he needled, "tell me. What's wrong?"

"It's nothing…"

"Usually when someone says, 'sigh, I'm in such a bad mood' that usually means they want to unload on someone. So come on. Tell me."

Once again, Willow sighed, but by this point it was just for show. Xander, for once, was right and she really _did _want someone to talk to. Having a secret and not being able to tell it was torture—and it had only been half a day!

Coming to a decision, Willow grabbed Xander by the arm and led him off to a corner of the hall where they were less likely to be observed. He looked a little surprised at the manhandling, but that was put aside as he took in the truly haggard state of his friend.

The witch in training looked around the hall, making sure that no one was around. Once she was sure the coast was clear, she fiddled with the sleeve of her sweater, trying to think of the best way to word it. "First of all, you have to promise—"

"Of course I won't tell anyone," Xander said, a rare look of sincerity on his face. "You're my best bud."

Willow smiled. "Aw, that's sweet, but I was going to make you promise never to use the phrase 'unload on' again. It sounds like—well, do you even need me to say it?"

Xander inclined his head. "Okay. Promise made. Now tell me."

Sighing, she told him, "Its Oz… Last night he… he—"

"Oh my god," Xander breathed, "he bit you!"

Willow's eyes widened in shock. She opened her mouth to deny it, but Xander reached forward and pulled her into a strong hug, her words muscled—er, _muffled—_into his chest.

Xander continued on, giving the girl in his arms a reassuring squeeze, "Don't you worry, Will. Even if you turn into a ravenous, bloodthirsty werewolf, I'll always stand by you." He paused. "Well… except when you're in wolf form of course. Then I'll be as far away as humanly possible, but I'll be supporting you _spiritually_."

"As touching as that is," Willow mumbled, lifting her head to speak, "Oz didn't bite me."

Xander stared down at her. "Say what?"

The small red-head managed to free herself from Xander's embrace and took a step backward. She looked left and right down the hall, but it was already empty as a majority of the students were off either having lunch or enjoying a break.

Satisfied that they wouldn't be seen, Willow pulled back her right sleeve to show the white gauze wrapped around her arm and the pink tinge that was beginning to color it as blood seeped through the bandages.

"Willow!" Xander cried, taking her arm in his hand. "…Oz did this to you?"

"No!" she denied immediately. Xander gave her a look and she released a quiet sigh. "…Well, yes, but he was in _wolf _form. I know he would never hurt me if he was in cute, normal, non-violent human form… Besides, it's just a scratch."

Xander stared at her as if he couldn't believe the words coming out of her mouth. "Willow, this is not just a scratch. You fall and scrape your knee? That's a scratch. A flesh eating beastie rips out a chunk of your flesh? Not so much."

Willow snatched her arm from Xander's grip and lowered her sleeve, her eyebrows creasing downward. "It's no big deal! It was my fault anyway."

"Will, it is not your fault! Unless you tied a steak around your neck and told him to come have a bite, none of this is your fault."

"You don't understand," Willow said, resisting the urge to stomp her foot. "Oz was acting differently than usual. He kept… sniffing something, and he wasn't reacting to anything. I tried to touch him and… well, you know the rest."

"You tried to _touch _him? That's like—"

"Xander, I don't need one of your witty similes to know what I did was stupid; I have this wound on my arm to prove it!"

The dark-haired teen sighed. "I'm sorry…"

Willow gave a quick nod, her gaze sliding to the floor. "It's okay… I know he could have bit me or… or _worse_, but I… I…" Despite herself, she felt tears beginning to gather in her eyes and gave a choked cry.

Xander released a small sound of regret and once more drew Willow into a hug. This time she didn't resist and threw her arms around him, wanting to release all of her pent up emotions as tears into the chest of the one person she trusted most with _anything_.

But she couldn't. It just didn't seem… right. She felt if she did, something would be set free that she couldn't take back.

So not a single tear was shed. However, in the arms of her longest lasting friend, she could feel herself slowly returning to normal.

"Uh, am I interrupting something?"

The two jumped apart, Willow immediately making sure her sleeves were pulled down while Xander held up his hands in surrender.

"Oz!" Willow exclaimed in surprised, not having seen him at all during the day. She rushed forward and leapt into her boyfriend's arms. Oz, while startled, caught her without missing a beat and wrapped his arms around her.

"Hi to you too," he said, shooting a small glance in Xander's direction over Willow's shoulder. "It's been, what, twelve hours?"

Willow withdrew from her boyfriend's arm and gave him a tender smile. She was just glad that he was back to his old self.

"We were just talking about you," Xander piped up. Willow flashed him a look over her shoulder, but she only received a pointed stare in return.

Oz looked between the two of them, his face as unreadable as always. "Oh yeah?"

"Oh, um," Willow floundered, extracting herself from Oz while looking for a suitable cover up. "We were just talking about how great of a musician you are and were… were wondering if _we _could ever be so talented!"

Oz took one look at Willow's smiling face and then turned to Xander. He raised a single eyebrow.

"Will says you were acting a little _strange _last night," Xander said, once more earning a panicked look from Willow. "You know—when you went teen wolf on us?"

"Strange?" Oz looked to Willow. "Strange how?"

"W-Well, it wasn't _too _strange," Willow assured him, as if that made it better, "just strange in the way that you didn't want to kill anyone and instead kept… sniffing."

"Sniffing?"

"Yes, man who repeats everything," Xander mocked, a humorless smile on his face. With practiced ease, both Willow and Oz ignored him.

Willow nodded. "Yeah, you kept your face pressed against the bars and you kept inhaling like you were smelling something…" Oz's forehead creased and his eyes traveled downward, the small motion not going unnoticed by his girlfriend. "Oz? Do you remember something?"

The musician sighed and looked at her with serious eyes. "Did it rain last night?"

"Huh?" Willow blinked and looked over at Xander, who appeared just as confused as she was. "No, it hasn't rained for at least a week."

Oz's frown seemed to deepen. "Well, I don't remember very clearly, but I do remember… rain. Smelling…rain."

Xander chuckled. "Great, mystery solved! We have a weather forecasting werewolf on our hands; that's _just _the thing we need. Now we can remember to pack umbrellas before we get our butts handed to us by vamps."

"Do you think that's it?" Willow frowned. "That you were just… smelling some oncoming rain?"

Oz shrugged. "I guess… My sense of smellhas been increasing lately." As if to prove his point, he took two delicate sniffs of the air and froze. "I smell blood."

Willow's eyes went wide and she turned to Xander, full on panic mode mere seconds away. She didn't want Oz to know that he had hurt her while in wolf form. If he found out, she didn't know _what _he would do, but she knew nothing good could come of it.

Sensing her distress, Xander laughed, drawing Oz's attention.

"Oh, that's just me," he said, smiling. "Had a little trouble with the ole razor this morning. Haha, I'm sure you know how that is… Right?"

Oz peered at Xander's face. "I don't see any cuts…"

"That's because they're… down there."

There was an all consuming silence as everyone's eyes uneasily traveled downward toward Xander's crotch.

"And on _that _note," Xander began, reddening, "I think I'll be continuing on towards the library." With an embarrassed nod toward Oz and a look that said 'you owe me big time' toward Willow, Xander turned and trekked library, leaving the aspiring witch and young werewolf behind.

"He's an odd fellow," Oz noted.

Willow chuckled and linked her arm with his. "Tell me about it."

**o0o**

Harry released a sigh of contentment as he stepped through the doors of Sunnydale High and slumped against a wall. Cool air blew over his sweat soaked body, and the moisture on his skin cooling felt like heaven after walking the short distance from his hotel room to the school.

Honestly, Harry didn't know how anyone could function while living under such conditions. Sunnydale was a hot place, and when you were used to 'hot' being a warm sixty degree evening, suddenly stepping into a place where on a _good _day the average temperature exceeded one-hundred degrees… it was as if he had migrated from the North Pole and into the Sahara.

He would have to research a cooling charm to cast on his clothing, and _soon_. Otherwise he was sure it wouldn't be long before he was roasted alive.

After soaking up what energy he could from the coolness, Harry hoisted himself to his feet and headed toward the library, hoping he wouldn't get lost like he had last time.

The high school wasn't exactly _big, _at least not compared to Hogwarts, but with its circling hallways and many doors, it took Harry a little longer than he liked before he reached a familiar set of double doors.

He hesitated only a moment before pushing the doors open and stepping inside.

Giles was nowhere in sight, but a group of students were sitting at one of the tables in the center of the room and they all looked up when he walked in. Harry recognized the red-haired boy from before, and with him was _another _red-haired girl—his sister perhaps?—and a dark-haired boy who was balancing a pencil over his lips.

Like the first time Harry had seen the red-head, Harry couldn't _help _but connect his orangey-red hair to Ron's, and with the girl sitting next to him… Harry shuddered, memories of Ginny and he rising unbidden to the forefront of his mind.

He pushed aside the thoughts desperately, not wanting to have an episode…not now… not in public. Besides, without the uncommon hair color, these two kids looked _nothing_ likeRon or Ginny.

For one, the boy looked too… serious. Ron was almost _never _serious, and what was more this red-head had no freckles.

And the girl… she looked so peppy that Harry felt as if he would get diabetes just staring at her. Ginny had a short fuse to match her flaming red hair, and as such, she always wore a volatile expression on her face, but when she was feeling a little devious, her eyes would sparkle a certain way and her luscious lips would curl upward…

Harry coughed and shook himself. The _important _thing to remember was, despite their red hair, these two blokes in _no way _resembled the Weasleys.

"Er, is… is Rupert Giles here?" Harry asked, once more giving the room a cursory glance.

The red-haired girl smiled somewhat awkwardly and looked around. "Um, Giles isn't in right now, but if you want, I could help you find what you're looking for?"

Harry frowned, somewhat hurt that the man wasn't where he said he would be _when _he said he would be there. For a moment he entertained the thought that perhaps Giles had come to the decision that he wanted nothing to do with Harry, and that now he was hiding out, maybe in the library itself, until Harry gave up and went back home.

But that was ridiculous; no one would go through such lengths just to get rid of someone… Would they?

"Oh, no thank you," Harry said, forgetting for a moment that the girl had even spoken to him. She was still looking at him with her half-smile, and her companion's focus was trained solely on him as well. He met their gazes without wavering, used to constant staring from his days at Hogwarts. "Do you perhaps know where he went…?"

The girl shook her head, appearing apologetic. Harry sighed, prepared to turn and leave.

"Are you his son?"

The question had come from the dark-haired boy who had apparently lost interest in trying to balance his pencil and was now tilting his chair backwards.

"Xander!" the red-haired girl admonished.

The chair returned to the floor with a thump and the one called Xander shrugged. "Come on, don't tell me you weren't thinking it too!"

The girl looked to Harry and then down at the table. "Well, yes, but… it's still rude!"

Harry cracked a smile despite himself, somewhat amused by their bantering. Besides, it warmed him the slightest bit to know that this stranger had thought he was related to Giles.

"I'm not his son," Harry admitted. He paused, debating internally if he should tell him the true relation between him and Giles. There was no harm in it, right? They were just curious students after all, and what was more, Harry _wanted _to tell it to someone. To say it out loud.

It made it seem more… real.

"He's my uncle," he smiled, a lightness fluttering in his chest. "Actually, my _great_-uncle, but… I like plain old uncle better."

"And that explains the accent," Xander said, smacking the table as if the entire mystery—whatever it was—had been solved.

"I didn't know Giles had family," the girl said, a bright smile appearing on her face as the result of Harry's own.

The red-haired boy next to her spoke for the first time, "I used to think he was a robot."

Weird looks were sent his way, but they didn't seem to faze him in the slightest. He just continued to gaze at Harry, his face looking both blank and serious all at once. It was an odd combination to say the least, and Harry quirked a slight brow at the teen.

"Right," Harry drawled. "It was nice meeting you all, but I think I'll go. Tell Giles Harry stopped by, alright?"

"Harry," the red-headed male whispered, his voice so low that it went unnoticed.

"Wait!" The single female leapt to her feet, her chair grating as it screeched across the floor. They all winced at the sound, all eyes turning toward her. Her expression was sheepish and she folded her hands together in a self-conscious gesture. "…Sorry."

Harry, having halted at the girl's cry and the loud screech of the chair, merely rubbed his ear. "S'alright… Who needs hearing anyway?" She shuffled guiltily at his words and Harry sighed, taking pity on her. "Did you need something?"

"Oh! No! I was, um… You don't have to leave, you know. You can wait in here, I'm sure Giles will be back soon…"

The idea wasn't a bad one, and despite the awkwardness of the girl, the trio didn't seem like a bad lot… Besides, if Giles did soon return, Harry didn't want to miss him.

"Alright," he said after several moments of contemplating. "I guess I can wait a minute or two."

The girl gave a bright smile and looked as if she would cheer. Thankfully, she didn't and instead directed him into a seat across from the quiet boy and next to the boy named Xander. Once he was seated, the girl returned to her own chair.

Up close, Harry could see that they all had books open and were doing what appeared to be schoolwork.

Unbidden, memories began assaulting Harry's brain of his days at Hogwarts. Studying with Hermione and Ron. Laughing when Hermione tried and failed to get Ron to take his studies serious. Hermione finally getting fed up with Ron and ignoring him, all for Ron to practically beg Hermione to once more help him.

The wave of vertigo that hit him was so strong that for a moment, Harry thought he would faint. Thankfully, a strong hand on his shoulder snapped him from the grasps of the memories and he blinked as he was once again brought into the world of the present.

Across from him, the two red-heads were looking at him in concern—or at least, he assumed the male was concerned as his eyebrows were drawn downward. The one who had shaken him was Xander, and Harry gave the teen a small nod to show his thanks.

"You okay?" Xander asking, giving his shoulder a slight squeeze before pulling away.

Harry smiled to the best of his abilities, but he was sure it looked as hollow as he felt. "I'm alright… It's just, the dusty smell of books makes me a little woozy."

"Oh, tell me about it," Xander gushed, slapping the book in front of him. A sprinkle of dust flew into the air and the teen gasped and coughed, trying futilely to wave away the dust.

The girl, however, wasn't so convinced of his wellness. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Again Harry smiled, this time more genuinely. "Yeah. It'll take more than a few musty old books to take me down."

She nodded, although a hint of concern was still lurking in her eyes. "Oh! I forgot to introduce myself! I'm Willow," she introduced, becoming excited.

Harry inclined his head good naturedly. "Hello. You already know this, but I'm Harry."

Next, she reached over and grasped the arm of the near-silent boy. She gave him a slick peck on the cheek, causing Harry to raise a brow of surprise. Either they were _very _friendly siblings, or…

"This is Oz," Willow continued, unaware of the turn Harry's brain had taken him. "He's my boyfriend. And a musician. I'm dating a musician," she grinned, looking near giddy.

"She never gets tired of saying that," Oz told him with a small smile.

Harry just chuckled, thinking that they were a cute couple. "Nice to meet you."

Oz nodded. "You too."

"And this is—"

"Xander," said man introduced, reaching out a hand to shake. "I'm the normal one."

Harry took the offered hand into his own and stole a peak across the table. Both Willow and Oz were shaking their head no, signaling that Xander was _not _the normal one.

"Pleasure to meet you," Harry said, trying to hold in his laughter.

"Likewise," Xander said. "And I can see you guys shaking you your heads out of the corner of my eye." He turned to them, frowning. "Peripheral. Yeah."

Willow at least had the grace to look sheepish; Oz just shrugged.

"There's usually two others who're a part of our group, but, well…" Willow trailed off and flashed a concerned look at Xander, who had gotten oddly quiet.

Harry raised an intrigued brow but didn't comment, knowing that it wasn't his place to pry.

"So, Harry," the cheery girl pressed on, trying to break the somber atmosphere which had seemed to envelop the room, "how long have you been in Sunnydale? I don't think I've ever seen you around the school until today, so…"

"I've only been here a couple days," Harry told them, going with the subject change. "This is my first time in Sunnydale—actually, this is my first time in _America_."

Xander gaped. "And you chose to come _here _of all places? Sunnyhell?"

Harry chuckled. "That's a fitting name. I thought I was going to burst into flame out there."

"Wouldn't be the first time that happened," Xander muttered. Harry, however, heard him and looked at him inquiringly. Seeing that, Xander released a quiet sigh and looked across the table at Willow.

The read-haired girl looked a little indignant that explaining duty had been passed onto her, but she sat up straighter in her seat and told him, "It's not called Sunnyhell because of the climate. Its… well, a lot of _weird _things happen here."

"Weird how?" Harry asked, intrigued. Was it possible there were other magic users in the area causing a little chaos? Or perhaps a magical creature of some sort? He hadn't heard of America having a Wizarding World of its own, but it wouldn't surprise him to find it so.

"It's not that bad," Willow defended weakly. "Just an unexplained phenomenon here, a disappearance or mysterious murder there…" She shrugged. "You get used to it."

"That's should be the town's catchphrase," Oz noted. "Sunnydale: You get used to it."

Harry's brow knitted, mulling this new information over in his head. What they were talking about definitely sounded supernatural, but he didn't think it was a wizard. Most likely some type of magical beast that was praying on the helpless Muggles.

His saving people thing was rearing its ugly head, but he pushed it aside with effort. It wasn't any of his concern, and besides, he didn't _really _know if anything was out there; for all he knew it could be the work of some psychopath.

While bad, it didn't exactly call for Harry having to get involved. He was no longer the Boy-Who-Lived or the Gryffindor Golden Boy. He didn't need to investigate anything.

He could just be _normal_.

"But don't worry!" Willow exclaimed, breaking him from his musings. "As long as you don't go out after dark or invite any strangers into your home, you should be fine."

Harry gave her a wan smile. "Gotcha."

**o0o**

In the end, Giles hadn't shown, and Harry had left after receiving multiple reassurances from Willow that she would be sure to tell the man that he had stopped by and to give him a swift kick in the arse for blowing off their engagement in the first place.

Harry had to admit, from what he had seen, he liked the trio. They seemed like a close knit group, and he couldn't help but be reminded of the trio he had been a part of back at Hogwarts… The Golden Trio they had been called…

A sigh escaped him as he lay down in his scratchy motel bed, staring up at the ceiling, lost in days long past.

It still hurt to remember, but with nothing to distract him, all Harry was left with was his memories, so all he couldto do was remember—remember how he had met both Hermione and Ron on that Hogwarts Express those many years ago, remember the friendship they had forged after saving Hermione from a troll, remember the laughs they shared… remember the honorable way in which they had died.

Harry rolled over on the bed, his eyes sliding shut as he tried to block the memories out—to stop the flow before it became too much, too fast.

Too late.

Snow… There was snow everywhere. It crunched under his feet as he walked, the sound of it filled his ears, and even the _smell _of it…

Cold.

It was cold, but still he walked forward—where he was going, he didn't know, but he knew he had to _get _there. He had to… because he was the Chosen One.

The bloody Boy-Who-Lived. It was his destiny. His _duty_.

He had to stop Voldemort, and it would all end tonight.

After six years of constant near misses and desperate struggles, it would all come to an _end_.

He thought he would be happy—he thought he'd be relieved. But all he felt was the cold, the mind numbing chilliness as it slowed the blood in his veins and crept into his shoes.

He had been brought up just to die. He _had _died—but now he was back.

And it would end. All of it.

Hogwarts was just ahead, and the heavy door that usually sealed its entrance was open, the entire door having been blasted off its hinges.

Harry, however, spared it only a moment's glance before passing through it.

He was still cold, but it was slowly being replaced by other feelings. He could no longer hear the sound of his own steps, nor could he smell the thick layer of snow outside.

Now all of his sentences focused on were death: death filled his vision,it invaded his nostrils, and he could even here it—off into the distance. Just up ahead, he knew a struggle was going on, and his pace quickened.

Just up ahead. Only a few more steps and he would be there. The Great Hall, they were keeping everyone hostage there, he just _knew _it, and all he had to do…

…was step….

…through the door.

But he didn't want to. He paused outside it, the great imposing door seeming so much bigger now that it no longer concealed a room that was filled with laughter, good food and warm feelings.

Now all it contained was death and blood. He could _smell _it. In fact, he could still _hear_ it, even now… the screams, the cruel laughter.

Yet still… he hesitated. His hand reached forward… his fingers quivering, but not from the cold, and he touched the door.

As if reacting to his gentle touch, it slowly creaked open, that putrid smell whooshing outward with a great gust and almost knocking Harry off his feet.

It was _sickening _in its potency, frightening in its freshness. The death.

And still the door inched open further and further, yet no matter how wide it opened, Harry couldn't see a thing. There was not a slip of light, and as the door continued to open light the frightening mouth of a flesh eating beast, he felt as if he were staring into the slowly opening gates of hell.

The door released a low groan as it opened all the way, the pure darkness not retreating at the light seeping in from the hallway at all.

Harry didn't know a room could _be _so dark. In fact, he didn't remember the room being dark at all…

He lingered outside the doorway, debating if he wanted to step inside or not. His friends were waiting after all, and he needed to save them…

No. He _had _to save them. He had to fulfill his destiny. He had to do what he had been born to do… what he had been _raised _to do.

He lifted his foot to take the first step.

But a grip on his shoulder stopped him.

Harry gasped and spun away from whatever had grabbed him, so surprised that he tripped over his feet and fell backward. Thankfully, the door behind him closed with a mighty bang and his back collided with the polished wood of the Great Hall entrance. Harry hardly even noticed, his gaze centered squarely on the robed individual who had appeared before him.

"Now is not the time."

Harry licked his lips and swallowed. He opened and closed his mouth, but no sound came out—whether it was due to fear, or something preventing him from speaking, he didn't know.

He couldn't quite make out what stood before him, as its visage was hazy, but it was at least seven feet tall and cloaked in darkness. Its body seemed to sway in a non-existent wind, and if Harry hadn't known better, he would _swear _he was gazing at a dementor.

"Soon," the specter whispered, lifting a long arm where a pair of spindly fingers could be seen, despite the fogginess of it. One of those long fingers stiffened and pointed… directly at the only other person who continued to gaze up speechless at the phantom before him.

Harry's heart beat out a crescendo in his ears as the finger drew nearer and nearer, his eyes crossing as it filled his line of vision.

The finger touched his forehead, and… Harry woke up, a choked gasp escaping his throat as he sat up in his bed, his entire body drenched in sweat.

He gazed left and right wildly, searching for a sign of the mysterious figure, but he was one more alone in his hotel room.

A dream… Harry tried to reassure himself, his hand going to where he had been touched—his scar. It had all been just a _crazy _dream…

He met his own gaze in the mirror.

…Or so he hoped.


End file.
